outside Chelsea Morning, still angry about losing a vital piece of evidence. She glanced next door at Papa’s empty gray house, recalling such a contrast in personality compared to her kooky neighbor on the other side.
Inside the fabric of Papa’s place, she’d spent weekends at the kitchen table eating peanut butter cookies. He’d planted sea tales in her head by day, which later morphed into mermaid dreams at night. He’d attended John’s funeral.
She’d only been yards away when he died alone, his assassin vanishing just out of her reach. She owed Papa. He’d done more for her than she could ever repay. She had the skills. He’d expect her to use them.
There’d be other clues; she was sure of it. This burglar’s propensity to taunt the authorities would be the hallmark that would cause him to slip up. She’d seen it before.
She drove down Jungle Road, uncertain. Her sleuthing had led to her husband’s death, so getting involved in a case now put her on edge. Her frenzied investigation after the fire had gotten her nowhere except burned out and broken. Then, when she’d found herself unable to juggle vengeance and tending a child, she’d quit . . . quit to raise John’s son safely.
But Jeb wasn’t safe with this creep on the loose.
The Edisto Police Station sat on a cramped triangular patch of land containing the station, town hall, fire department, and public works. A free water station filled jugs for those who couldn’t stand the salty tap water. A fire truck parked outside, wet from a wash. The whole place sported brick and beige vinyl siding, with a gray tin roof. An ancient oak reached seventy feet up, a canopy almost as wide, surrounded by a three-foot retaining wall.
As she opened the glass front door, air conditioning sucked her in. Crisp, clean, quiet. Her sneakers squeaked against linoleum. Seabrook, leaning over the largest of three desks, looked up.
The room was barely larger than Callie’s living room and kitchen. A laminated Edisto map swallowed up an entire wall. A bulletin board, commendations, and festival posters hung on the other walls along with the town seal and pictures of hand-shaking politicians and council members. Two full-size wall safes, one slate-colored and one black, sat in a vigil behind the desks. Space, technology, and furniture, but not people. Something unbalanced about that budget, in her opinion.
A receptionist greeted her. “What can we do for you?”
“I got this, Marie. This is Callie Morgan, from the Cantrell house.” Seabrook walked over. “What brings the big city detective to our beachfront Mayberry?”
“Can we talk?” Callie asked. “And I’d like my Glock back, please.”
He held open the small swinging door. She followed him past the only private office, most likely the ex-chief’s.
He motioned her to a simple metal chair in front of his spartan desk. A nameplate, but no family photos. No second grader-designed paperweights or crayon pictures. The closest thing to a personal touch was a plastic cup from a real estate agent on the beach, the one who claimed to be the best on the Carolina coast. Bright red with a gold wave, it was stuffed with pens from what appeared to be every commercial interest on Edisto.
“So,” he said, sitting. “What’s up?”
She still loved his calm. “Several thoughts. Might mean nothing. One is a definite problem. I don’t know these people like you do. And I’m not trying to do your job . . .”
He rocked his chair forward, those green eyes concentrating on her. “You’re not pissing in my sandbox, Callie. Just tell me what you think. We gathered fingerprints from Rosewood, but they don’t match anything in the systems we can access. And we talked to most of the people around you.”
She liked this man. She crossed her sneakers. “Did you talk to Mason Howard? I met him again this morning jogging on the beach.”
Seabrook wrinkled his nose. “Briefly, but he doesn’t know anything.
Inside the fabric of Papa’s place, she’d spent weekends at the kitchen table eating peanut butter cookies. He’d planted sea tales in her head by day, which later morphed into mermaid dreams at night. He’d attended John’s funeral.
She’d only been yards away when he died alone, his assassin vanishing just out of her reach. She owed Papa. He’d done more for her than she could ever repay. She had the skills. He’d expect her to use them.
There’d be other clues; she was sure of it. This burglar’s propensity to taunt the authorities would be the hallmark that would cause him to slip up. She’d seen it before.
She drove down Jungle Road, uncertain. Her sleuthing had led to her husband’s death, so getting involved in a case now put her on edge. Her frenzied investigation after the fire had gotten her nowhere except burned out and broken. Then, when she’d found herself unable to juggle vengeance and tending a child, she’d quit . . . quit to raise John’s son safely.
But Jeb wasn’t safe with this creep on the loose.
The Edisto Police Station sat on a cramped triangular patch of land containing the station, town hall, fire department, and public works. A free water station filled jugs for those who couldn’t stand the salty tap water. A fire truck parked outside, wet from a wash. The whole place sported brick and beige vinyl siding, with a gray tin roof. An ancient oak reached seventy feet up, a canopy almost as wide, surrounded by a three-foot retaining wall.
As she opened the glass front door, air conditioning sucked her in. Crisp, clean, quiet. Her sneakers squeaked against linoleum. Seabrook, leaning over the largest of three desks, looked up.
The room was barely larger than Callie’s living room and kitchen. A laminated Edisto map swallowed up an entire wall. A bulletin board, commendations, and festival posters hung on the other walls along with the town seal and pictures of hand-shaking politicians and council members. Two full-size wall safes, one slate-colored and one black, sat in a vigil behind the desks. Space, technology, and furniture, but not people. Something unbalanced about that budget, in her opinion.
A receptionist greeted her. “What can we do for you?”
“I got this, Marie. This is Callie Morgan, from the Cantrell house.” Seabrook walked over. “What brings the big city detective to our beachfront Mayberry?”
“Can we talk?” Callie asked. “And I’d like my Glock back, please.”
He held open the small swinging door. She followed him past the only private office, most likely the ex-chief’s.
He motioned her to a simple metal chair in front of his spartan desk. A nameplate, but no family photos. No second grader-designed paperweights or crayon pictures. The closest thing to a personal touch was a plastic cup from a real estate agent on the beach, the one who claimed to be the best on the Carolina coast. Bright red with a gold wave, it was stuffed with pens from what appeared to be every commercial interest on Edisto.
“So,” he said, sitting. “What’s up?”
She still loved his calm. “Several thoughts. Might mean nothing. One is a definite problem. I don’t know these people like you do. And I’m not trying to do your job . . .”
He rocked his chair forward, those green eyes concentrating on her. “You’re not pissing in my sandbox, Callie. Just tell me what you think. We gathered fingerprints from Rosewood, but they don’t match anything in the systems we can access. And we talked to most of the people around you.”
She liked this man. She crossed her sneakers. “Did you talk to Mason Howard? I met him again this morning jogging on the beach.”
Seabrook wrinkled his nose. “Briefly, but he doesn’t know anything.
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